


Tales of Fallen London

by Allerleirauh



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Anal Sex, Animal Transformation, Authority Figures, Bodily Fluids, Crossdressing, Double Penetration, Electricity, F/F, F/M, Fucking Machines, M/M, Marking, Object Penetration, Oral Sex, Other, Paddling, Possession, Service, Stretching, Tentacles, Vaginal Sex, body alteration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-23 03:36:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/921525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allerleirauh/pseuds/Allerleirauh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of stories set in Fallen London, taking a look at the... shall we say... naughtier side of the city.</p>
<p>betaed by lanalucy - a kink bingo blackout (once the collection is complete)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Warm Welcome

 

 Welcome, Delicious Friends! Welcome here in Mahogany Hall! Welcome to an evening of excitement and wonders!

I am your hostess tonight, so allow me to introduce myself first. You already might have guessed that I’m not a born Londoner. No, it was a long and dangerous journey that brought me here. Born as a princess of the royal Kashmiri household, I became the innocent pawn in a game of power and intrigue. I was forced to flee and seek my luck far away. So I arrived here in London, great city of the Neath. Why, you might wonder, am I telling you this? Is it important?

Delicious friends, it most certainly is! Because I have found a new trade here, a new trade yet an old passion. Here in London I have become a storyteller, and tonight it will be my pleasure and privilege to present you with a true kaleidoscope of stories. You will hear my most favourite Tales of London. Following in the tradition of the great Scheherazade I will entertain and educate you. ‘Entertainment? Education? What is this woman talking about?’ I can hear you asking yourselves.

Delicious friends, when I promise you tales, I’m not talking of stories concerned with our normal and everyday London city life. Even though it’s debatable how much of it is truly ‘normal’. No, I’m talking about the, how shall I put it, yes, the hidden and more exclusive facets of our most beloved city. I’m talking about all those places, persons and… beings that cater to the more exotic and esoteric. I’m talking about the professionals and amateurs in the games of pain and pleasure that we all like playing from time to time.

My delicious, my most scrumptious friends, allow me to entertain you, to excite you, and to titillate you. Lend me your ear and listen to my Tales of Fallen London…


	2. Her Master’s Voice – Service

The Masters of the Bazaar, revered by many, feared by most — they are the undisputed rulers of Fallen London. Oh, there are other players around, but in the end they all bow to the Masters, even though it requires the gritting of teeth as well as the bending of necks that are almost too inflexible in their pride.

She knows nothing of such troubles. Bowing in front of Mr Pages or gracefully sliding down on her knees – she loves both.

She is one of Mr Pages Reliables, perhaps _the_ Reliable, _his_ Reliable, Reliable Number One. She smiles at the phrase, then pulls herself together, calls herself back to order. She’s in the presence of her Master after all, attending him, serving him in any way he sees fit.

Mr Pages — she’s always thought of it as a _him_ , even though she knows that the Masters don’t have a gender. They don’t need one.

She, however, _does_. Thinking of Mr Pages as a him — it makes her skin prickle. When he commands her the sound of his high and slightly raspy voice is like a caress that flows over and around her, that pushes inside her and touches her in all the right places.

Today he has told her to read to him – one of the touching love stories he adores so much. This is one of the tasks she likes best, the one he has specifically chosen her for, reading him stories, her melodious voice softly rising and falling as she sits at his feet. To her it’s the sweetest bliss imaginable.

A glance down the page shows her that she is fast reaching the end of this particular story. She doesn’t want it to end, but she knows of no way to prolong it, to prolong her pleasure. It’s already late in the evening. Most likely her Master will retire afterwards. He will retire and leave her alone and useless.

She risks another glance, this time away from the book and upwards at her Master. She desperately wishes she could gauge his mood. She has a request to make — a request she has wanted to make for so very long but has never dared to utter until tonight.

She reaches the end of the story and falls silent. Her head bowed, she closes the book and puts it down beside her. If she wants to make her request it has to be now. Her mind races and her throat tightens. Is it fear? She is tongue-tied.

Out of the corner of her eye she sees her Master rise. She hears and feels him moving past her. Now, it’s too late. Her chance is gone.

Then… a miracle happens. As he passes, her Master drops his cloak, lets it slide and allows it to settle on her shoulder and back. It’s too much fabric and it piles on her in an unruly heap, but the weight makes her heart sing and the smell emanating from it makes her feel light-headed.

She doesn’t look up. Instead she pulls the cloak over her, until it covers her completely. Her Master has granted her a most precious gift, fulfilling a request she was too cowardly to make. She smiles, safely cocooned in the cloak’s darkness, as pride and gratitude fill her with such a wild joy she wants to sing. This is her Master, Mr Pages, the noblest of all the Masters of the Bazaar and she, she is his Reliable, the most trustworthy of them all. 


	3. Bend Over the Counter - Authority Figures

She was a feisty little thing, a new player in the Great Game, full of naivety and prone to overestimate herself. Casually she had strolled into Alice’s shop and after closing the door behind her had just stood there, giving Alice a long and scrutinising look.

Naturally Alice had returned that favour. She had expected the young woman. She took her time studying her visitor carefully, noticing the practical haircut as well as the respectable grey gown and the spidersilk slippers.

Alice liked what she saw and by the slight look of awe that had crept onto the young woman’s face the appreciation was quiet mutual.

“I’m Dora,” the young woman introduced herself.

Alice didn’t react to that. “Lock the door,” she said instead. She watched as Dora spun around and hastily turned the key in its lock. “Come here,” Alice continued as soon as the young woman had turned back to her again. She watched Dora step closer, showing no sign of hesitation. _This is an eager one_ , she thought to herself, _eager to become the Cheesemonger’s apprentice, eager to please and eager to learn_.

Staring deep into the young woman’s eyes, she said, “I want you to listen very carefully. I think you have potential, so I’m willing to take you in. I’m willing to teach you, but in return I expect your absolute obedience. Is that understood?” She waited a second, saw the young woman’s face turn very serious, saw her searching for words and fail.

“Answer me!” Alice’s voice was like a whip, fast and sharp.

“Yes, Ma’am!” The words tumbled over Dora’s lips and while the young woman’s voice was soft, her eyes had turned as hard as flint stone.

“Bend over the counter!” Alice ordered. She saw it happen then. For the very first time, there was a flicker of doubt in the young woman’s face. Alice leaned forward, leaned so close that their faces almost touched. “Don’t you trust me?” she whispered.

Dora turned to the side and with a last glance over her shoulder, a slightly pleading look on her face she rose to her toes. Grabbing the counter’s opposite edge, she bent over it.

For a moment Alice stood transfixed by the sight. This seemed almost too easy. Could it be that this lovely new player shared the same kind of tastes that Alice did? She hadn’t heard any rumours to that effect. So maybe she was dealing with a very cautious young woman, one that was suitably discreet in pursuing her desires. How exciting an opportunity!

Swiftly she leaned over the counter herself, but only to fish for a paddle she kept stored there. It wasn’t something one would expect in a cheesemonger’s store, but it had been such a useful tool through the years.

Two flicks of her wrist and she had pulled Dora’s gown up and over the girl’s head. Alice would have pulled her underwear down next, only there wasn’t any. “Naughty,” she said, her tone both appreciative and mocking. “You know this won’t go unpunished.” She let her free hand stroke the delectable round buttocks. Then she brought the paddle down to bear with a resounding crack.

Though the young woman must have known what was coming, she still gave a startled yell of surprise, her hand momentarily letting go of the counter’s edge as if she was seriously contemplating ending their game.

Alice wouldn’t have any of it. Leaning over the young woman’s body, she pressed her firmly down against the counter. “You’re not going to move a single muscle. Do you hear me?” she hissed. When no immediate answer came, she added, “And I don’t want to hear a sound from you either.” She waited, only raising herself up again when she felt the young woman beneath her relax.

Alice raised herself up, then took a half-step back. Without any further warning she delivered a set of three moderately hard blows. The young woman didn’t make a sound. Her buttocks were developing a rosy hue now, and Alice used her free hand to caress the slightly warmed flesh. _Time to up the ante_ , she thought. Letting her hand wander down, she pushed the young woman’s thighs slightly apart. She grinned when her fingers discovered warm and wet arousal. Pushing her thumb as deep inside as she could she used her other fingers to rub the young woman’s clit hard and fast, this time eliciting an involuntary gasp that Alice’s paddling hadn’t managed to draw out.

She tsked in mock disapproval at the sound. Letting go, she used the paddle again, delivering three more blows, reddening those lovely buttocks even further. There was a very marked tension in the young woman’s lean frame by now, and Alice revelled in the sight. Pushing her fingers inside Dora’s folds again, she rubbed and stroked relentlessly. She had no doubt that she could bring the young woman off in no time, but she wasn’t quite finished with her lesson.

She stepped back one last time and now she didn’t hold back, delivering three very hard blows that wrung a short shriek out of young Dora’s throat. Swiftly grabbing her arms, Alice pulled her up and around, then pushed her backwards until the young woman half sat on the counter. Alice moved forward, crowding her by moving between her legs, her hand unerringly finding the young woman’s arousal again, her ministrations turning very rough now as she pushed and stroked and thrust. It took less than a minute before Dora convulsed around her fingers, her head dropping forward, coming to rest on Alice’s shoulder.

“Welcome, my young protégé. Welcome to the Great Game,” Alice whispered. Dora for her part only sighed.


	4. A Master’s Blood – Bodily Fluids

It is a deeper red than human blood and freezing cold to the touch. It carries a song in it: an unending fading ring like black space struck with a fingernail. It sits on a shelf in your lodgings, trembling and shivering. The other objects you had put there before have cautiously drifted apart. They’ve edged away as if nervous of the company.

The blood-phial is a trophy you’ve received from your anarchist friends. It’s a payment they gave you after you told them of the route to the Cave of the Nadir, whispered the information into their eager ears.

For weeks, months even you’ve stood in front of the shelf, staring at the phial. You feel mesmerized by it, drawn to it like a moth to a flame. _The Blood of One of the Masters!_ The words echo through your mind. They ignite your veins with a burning blaze of excitement.

It’s such a dangerous lure. It devastates your mind and makes your limbs tremble. It’s a dark promise — of power, of salvation or of death? You don’t know, but the longer you stare at it the less you care as its mere sight seems to fill you with such intense longing it feels like slowly being ripped apart.

More and more you are unable to think of anything else but the phial. Most of your waking hours seem to have fallen prey to it. The nights are even worse, because during the nights come your dreams, dreams filled with blood and lust and ecstasy, causing you to shudder awake at the intensity of the pain and pleasure that is unbearable and far sweeter than anything you’ve ever experienced in your life.

Your fingers glide over the phial’s frost-coated surface now. It might be a trick of the light, but it almost seems to you as if the blood inside reacts to your touch. It seems to pulse, slow and strong. You’re ashamed by the slight tremor of your hands as you finally reach out and pull the phial from its shelf. You cradle it against your chest and wait for the shaking to subside.

Carefully you walk over to your bed. You sit down and close your eyes, listening to the rapid beating of your heart. Are you imagining it? The phial seems to have warmed under your touch. Cautiously you loosen the grip of your fingers around it, until you can take a glimpse at its contents. _Yes!_ It is warmer now, and the pulsing of the Master’s Blood is unmistakable now. It sets a strong counter-rhythm to your own pulsing blood that is far weaker, but runs much faster in comparison.

You open your eyes again, and watch your hands reach for the stopper. You pull and it comes out easily. Briefly you’re unsure what to do with it. You flinch when it drops out of your fingers, drops to the floor with a soft clunk as it hits the carpet in front of your bed. The phial in your hands shifts ever so slightly, but it is enough to send a first waft of its contents’ aroma to your nose.

You sniff carefully. Even before your brain is able to begin identifying the scent, you know that you are completely lost now. The fragrance is as sweet as it is pungent, and the phial’s rim is startlingly hot against your lips. When has this happened? You can’t remember raising the phial, but now you see the Blood trickling towards the phial’s opening, trickling towards your mouth. You draw a last and hasty breath, closing your eyes again. The blood fills your mouth. Eternity descends upon you and you fall…


	5. The Workshops of the Great Downward Engineering Company – Fucking Machines

He prided himself on being one of the most savvy and successful thieves in Fallen London. Nothing in the Spite or the Flit was safe from him. Proud as a cockerel, he had spent many of his days strutting through the streets of London and most of his nights dancing and celebrating in the Singing Mandrake.

Breaking into the Workshops of the Great Downward Engineering Company had seemed like such a fabulous idea — risky of course, but he had felt more than up to the task. He was, after all, one of the best, wasn’t he?

He had made his way to the Bazaar’s silent side-streets that lay even more silent now in the middle of the night. Rounding the building, he had entered through the small backdoor, its locks, though heavy and solidly built, hadn’t been a challenge to his mastery. Taking a quick look around, he had tried to familiarise himself with the layout of the workshop’s backroom. Then something heavy had struck him hard from behind, and he had fallen into darkness.

***

When he regained consciousness he found himself almost completely immobilised. He was lying on his belly, on some kind of bench, though it seemed to be a very strange one. His first instinctive attempt to push himself up had revealed that he was tightly strapped to that bench. He tried to wiggle, but discovered that taut leather straps around his shoulders and waist fixed him quite securely. Strangely enough his arms and legs had been spread and secured too, leaving him lying spread-eagled on something that obviously resembled more a cross than a bench.

The only part of his body that was remotely free to move was his head, allowing him to look to both sides, though apart from dark shadows there seemed nothing interesting to see.

He was still trying to figure out in what kind of predicament he had landed himself this time, when a most shocking revelation hit his suddenly wary mind. He was missing his trousers! Someone had stripped him from the waist down before strapping him to this strange cross. The realisation caused a sudden lump of fear to form in his stomach.

He tried to struggle, tried to pull his hands free, but it was futile. His efforts, however, were met by a round of huffs and giggles. “Who—” he asked, but before he could finish his question a large hand slapped down on his naked arse, turning his question into a startled, high-pitched yell.

“Look what we’ve got here,” a dark voice spoke to his right, “a bloody thief and a rather poor one at that.” The words were followed by more sounds of amusement.

Hearing his talents ridiculed, he felt professional pride well up in him. He was a good thief, dammit! He wanted to protest, but then thought better of it. His current position made it seem inadvisable to argue the point. He wanted to ask what they had planned for him, but he thought he could guess. The hand on his arse had given him a clear hint. Oh well, it wouldn’t be the first thorough spanking of his life. He could weather it, and there were certainly worse things that could happen to him. Resigned to his fate he let his head hang down over the cross’ edge. “Go ahead,” he said, and though it churned he added, “I suppose I deserve it.”

The silence that followed seemed to ring with surprise. He heard more shuffling noises and soft laughter, then the soft clinking and clonking of some machinery. He felt the hand resting on his arse move away and waited for the first blow.

It didn’t come. Instead the dark voice spoke again, sounding strangely conversational. “You know, only a very few people could imagine just what a large diversity of contraptions we’re producing in this workshop. It’s not all whirring contraptions and bejewelled lenses. Oh, no my boy, we also cater to the more exotic taste, building machines of both pleasure and pain.”

As if to illustrate the point the hand returned to his arse, giving it a friendly pat. Soon it was joined by another and he felt both of them slowly part his buttocks. Now it dawned on him that there was quite another punishment planned for him than a spanking.

Should he protest? His mind was in a frenzy. Of all the possible outcomes he had imagined for this heist, this certainly hadn’t been among the possibilities. Before he could make up his mind, he suddenly felt something slender and slick push inside him, not a finger, but something even thinner and more unyielding; something that caused him to bite his lip and remain silent.

The dark voice spoke once more. “As you can imagine, most of the time we use our machine oil to lubricate our toys and contraptions, but it is equally useful for other things.” The last words were accompanied by a very soft squirting sound, almost too faint to be heard.

The young thief didn’t need his hearing to know what was going on, however, as he felt warm liquid flooding his insides. If there had been any doubt left with him about what was coming, this preparation left nothing to his imagination.

An involuntary sigh escaped his lips. He knew he really should protest, but a sudden idea stopped him. His captors seemed rather considerate so far, and while his present circumstances were somewhat awkward, this kind of punishment might still be far better than prison. Come to think of it, this could even be pleasurable if he managed to play his cards right.

“You goin’ to fuck me? Punish me properly, and afterwards you goin’ to let me go, aren’t you?” he asked, making his voice sound high, as if rising in trepidation and excitement, gambling on the youthful pleading that had gotten him out of more than one tight corner in the past.

Again he heard chuckles. Suddenly another voice spoke directly into his ear. “Oh, yes my boy. We’re going to fuck you good. And when we’re through with you, you can go back to where you came from. There’s enough of you silly buggers in prison. No need to raise those numbers.”

“Crawl back to where he came from more likely,” the dark voice added, barely suppressed laughter ringing in it.

The thief snorted derisively, a stupid reaction probably, but what were those blokes taking him for? A soddin’ virgin? He was still searching for a fittingly cutting remark, when he felt something warm and hard press against his lips. He tried to jerk away, but a hand in his hair stopped him short.

“Lick it,” the dark voice said. “Don’t worry, it’s only a piece of trembling amber. It won’t hurt you, I promise.”

He was confused, but he did as he was told. He licked at it, noticing that it had roughly the shape of a cock, a cock that was decidedly on the larger side of the spectrum, but not so big as to be scary. The amber was slightly vibrating and where his tongue licked at it a shock of tingling electricity ran through his tongue and into his mouth. The trembling amber had its name for good reason.

He felt slightly disappointed when the amber was pulled away again. The sensation had been really pleasant. He thought he could guess what it would be used for next, however, and just the idea made his mouth water.

Again he heard soft shuffles and then something was wheeled across the workshop. He couldn’t see it of course, but he could hear the soft creaking of the wheels as it was brought near.

What were they up to? He heard the soft hissing of steam. A steam powered contraption? What for? He couldn’t make head or tails of the sounds he was hearing. He was ready to ask, when suddenly insistent fingers shoved all his questions to the side as he felt his body once again breached, his arsehole fingered and roughly stretched, until finally, startlingly, the trembling amber was slowly pushed inside.

He moaned out loud. His mind whirled as he realised that he had underestimated the object’s size. The sheer girth of the amber cock was stretching him well past his limit of comfort. It burned and he felt his muscles trying to clamp down against the invasion, but the pressure continued, pushing deeper, pushing relentlessly until the whole length (or what he hoped was the whole length) of the amber was resting inside him.

He was breathing in short, shocked gasps, feeling completely overwhelmed by all the sensations he was only slowly becoming aware of. Had the amber’s soft trembling and discharge of electricity felt pleasant to his tongue, its effect in his arse was far, far better. He barely managed to supress the yowls of pure bliss that were threatening to spill from his mouth. He felt almost sorry that the experience wouldn’t last, as this could only be the preparation for some serious fucking to come next.

He waited for the amber cock to be pulled out, but once again his expectations were wrong. He heard and felt some fiddling going on above him and near his arse. He felt the amber shift slightly, felt it press hard against his prostate and he groaned again. The constant hiss of steam slightly intensified.

At last, he felt the amber cock slowly being pulled out of his arse. Only… it wasn’t. It was pulled out until only the slightly flared tip was stretching his hole. Then it pushed in again and as deep as before. He grunted in surprise, and felt his trapped cock underneath him twitch.

A second later a hand carefully pushed underneath his groin, and he felt his hardening cock deftly handled and pushed through a rather conveniently placed hole in the bench he hadn’t even noticed was there. Its existence was a true blessing though, as it allowed his cock to harden fully without any discomfort apart from the fact that it was now swinging completely free underneath his body and the bench.

For a moment this handling of his cock had captured all his attention, but it didn’t take more than the next deep push to bring the existence of the amber cock back into sharp focus. There was something as exhilarating as menacing about the way the amber was slowly pushing in and out of his arse, setting all of his nerve endings on fire. It was the relentlessness of the movement, the knowledge that this could continue as long as the contraption didn’t run out of steam, far longer than the young thief would be able to endure the constant if pleasurable onslaught on his body. The idea alone caused a sharp lance of arousal to shoot through his body, causing his cock to twitch again.

“We’ve made this for a very special customer from the Shuttered Palace,” the dark voice said with an appreciative chuckle, obviously intent on continuing its explanation of what was going on and why. “It’s rather fortunate that you showed up tonight. We were just discussing how to test it, how to make sure that it is safe for use before we deliver it. We had just decided that we would have to draw straws when we heard you tampering at our backdoor.” There was a slight pause before the voice continued. “As I said, a most fortuitous coincidence.”

The young thief felt a pair of fingers glide up the crack of his arse, applying soft pressure to the rim of his stretched hole. He heard another chuckle. “Let’s increase the speed a bit, shall we?”

The thief didn’t even try to give an answer, at least not an articulate one. Now he understood why he could consider himself lucky if he managed to crawl out of here. He felt the pumping cock slowly speed up, each unrelenting thrust hammering against his prostrate, causing his cock to twitch and leak continuously by now. He wanted to squirm. He wanted to touch himself. He could do neither, so instead he started to moan, loud and low and desperate for release. “Please,” he sobbed at last.

Suddenly all motion stopped. He felt the amber once more push deep inside him, then turn still. “I like it when you beg,” another voice said, a woman’s voice. “But I know something even better to occupy your mouth.”

He felt a hand at his jaw, gently lifting his head. “Open up, little thief,” she murmured.

A cock pushed inside his mouth, pushed slow and deep, before drawing back again until it was only the head resting heavily on his tongue. Swirling his tongue around it, he tried gauging the man’s reactions.

The woman’s voice spoke again. “Come on, boy,” she urged him. “Harder!”

He started sucking in earnest then, using the suction to spur the man in front of him into action again. Thankfully the man seemed to get the message fast as he fell into a lazy rhythm, pushing his cock deep into the thief’s mouth, but not so deep as to make him gag. He doubled his efforts and braced himself as best as he could when he felt the soft swelling of the cock in his mouth. The man’s thrusts grew slightly erratic and within a second he came, spurting his semen deep into the thief’s mouth.

He tried swallowing most of it, but felt a good amount trickling out of his moth and down his chin. He coughed softly to clear his throat when he felt a pat to his head. “Thanks, lad,” the man in front of him said, then stepped aside.

Somehow his motion must have been some silent starting signal, because all of the sudden the thief found himself assaulted everywhere. A chair was pushed in front of his face and a young woman, obviously the one that had spoken to him earlier, casually sat down in it. Just like him, she was naked from the waist down and as she opened her legs, slinging them over the chair’s armrest he immediately understood what his next task would be. He saw her grin in the diffuse light and he dared to grin back. This, he thought, would certainly be fun.

With a slight push forward she managed to move slightly closer, giving him near-perfect access. He eagerly began to lick her folds when the amber cock was swiftly pulled out of his arse, causing him to give another startled yell, causing the girl to giggle in delight.

He tried to look over his shoulder as he felt something warm and wet trickle slowly into his gaping hole, but the girl would have none of it. Roughly gripping his hair, she pulled his head back towards her. “Get on with it, boy,” she growled softly, the warning clear.

Abandoning any cautious exploration he stiffened his tongue and tried to push as deep as he could inside her, listening to her moans of approval with considerable satisfaction. Attacking her clit next, he wondered if his arse would finally be fed a real cock now. As if in answer to his silent question he felt someone settle astride his back. Two hands pulled his arse cheeks apart, stretching him wide and then a cock plunged in — a real one this time — and though it was a bit slimmer than the amber, it was even better, slightly rougher and longer, filling him deep and fast.

The thief tried his best to let everything that was happening to his arse translate into the movements of his mouth, allowing the punishing rhythm of the cock that was thrusting in and out of him to be mirrored by the wild stabs and frenzied swirls of his tongue. His own cock and his balls were aching terribly by now, yet he still didn’t dare to ask for release.

Someone, however, must have taken pity on him, because no sooner had he thought of it than he felt a large hand circling his cock. It didn’t take much, only two, three rough strokes and he came hard, loudly shouting his pleasure and relief. Barely conscious he concentrated every last ounce of his strength in sucking the girl’s clit and was soon rewarded by a long, throaty sigh signalling her climax. The man lovingly fucking his arse didn’t seem to be far behind as his thrusts grew faster and shallower by the second. With a large bellow he finally came, pressing deep inside, shooting his load. Then he withdrew and moved off the thief’s back.

For a minute, maybe even longer, a sated silence settled in the workshop. “Well, that was rather nice, wasn’t it?” the young woman said at last.

Her question was purely rhetorical, but the young and by now thoroughly punished thief thought it was a great opening for him. “It certainly was,” he answered, “and believe me, I will never, ever dare to lay so much as a finger on any of your workshop’s possessions.” He had meant his words to sound congenial, yet he felt immediately that somehow he had said the wrong thing.

The silence that followed them was heavy. Finally the dark voice spoke again. “You don’t think we’re already through with you, do you, my lad?” He sounded incredulous.

A moment later the by now very familiar amber cock was pushed deeply into the thief’s arse. _Oh, bugger_ , he thought, allowing himself a heartfelt groan as the contraption above him let loose an almost mocking hiss of steam and, rapidly picking up force and speed, it started fucking his arse into oblivion.


	6. Consent to a Potentially Depraved Union – Stretching / Fisting

He’s purposefully loping in her wake as she hastens through the Spite, his tentacles dangling like a hanged man’s fingers. Instinctively her hands move over her pockets, searching for a morsel to throw at his feet, but then she pauses. Partly due to her little... addition, she’s become better at telling Rubbery Men apart. This one keeps seeking her out. It doesn't want her Warm Amber. It has other intentions.

She feels a flush spreading all over her body as she realises exactly what it is he wants from her. With furtive gestures she motions him to follow her, leads him back to her lodgings.

It is madness what she is about to do, but by now her whole body is singing with arousal, a deep pleasure that seems to have its centre in that most shameful thing she’s been adorned with only recently.

It had been supposed to be an interesting adventure down into the bowels of the Neath. She had visited Flute Street, had explored its buildings and its people. She had dined with the miserable deviless, and she had enjoyed a rather pleasurable evening deep in conversation with a Fluke. Possibly it had all gone a bit to her head, because when the offer of enhancement had been made to her, it had sounded like such a grand idea, eminently logical and a splendid chance to gain first-hand knowledge.

Her hand glides over her quivering addition.  The sharp spike of pleasure the touch causes is almost enough to make her stumble. A pair of tentacles catches her from behind, courteously stopping her fall and keeping her on her feet. She risks a glance over her shoulder and sees the Rubbery Man wink at her with his one visible eye. She feels a shudder run through her body, warming her from head to toe.

She fumbles with her keys, almost drops them when she tries to unlock the door to her lodgings, but finally manages to open the door. Turning around, she grabs him by his tentacles and pulls him inside, pulls him over to her bed.

The next minute is a frantic stripping of clothes and bed sheets. It doesn’t take long before they are both naked. They get rid of pillows as well as the duvet until they lie on the bare mattress. Nothing else is necessary and might only hinder tentacles as well as other far more unspeakable extremities to twine and meet and impale.

She moans in delight and his throaty and wet gurgling echoes her passion. He flops onto his back, beckoning for her to straddle him. It is the best position for what they are about to do, performing this most depraved, yet also most sacred of unions. She rubs herself against his fibrous flesh, feels herself grow wet and warm between her legs, almost feverish in her frenzy to mate.

She feels a slim tentacle push inside her, writhe in her wetness before it pulls out again. It pushes into her arse, causing her to moan in delight. Another tentacle, thicker than the first, pushes inside her folds, impales her. It’s an inadequate approximation of a true joining, but this double penetration is the only thing they can achieve.

For all its inadequacy it’s still highly pleasurable. She feels the tentacles writhe inside her, stretching her, pushing in and pulling out, the rubbery flesh inside her knotting tightly to stimulate her into climax. She feels herself rushing towards it, feels her own quivering adornment, her personal enhancement slowly unfurl. Blindly she reaches out with it, finds the Rubbery Man’s corresponding pouch and pushes in deep. He shudders underneath her, his ululating cries changing into a higher register, turning more desperate with every second.

His thrusts are so powerful each one of them slightly lifts her up from his body. He has pushed as much of his tentacles inside her as she can take and she is rubbing herself hard, one hand pinching her own nipples while the other strokes over her clit. Her enhancement, having reached it full length and girth by now, is buried deep in his pouch, writhing and squirming inside him, producing squelching noises that should sound obscene and wrong, but seem to her as the sweetest music of the spheres.

Her climax catches them both by surprise. She pulls him with her over the edge, sends them both tumbling down, firmly entwined around as well as inside one another. They convulse and tremble until they lie still, sated for the moment.

She gives him a heavy-lidded glance — her rubbery consort. Her mind weighs all possible options. The scandal will be a killer, but that can’t be helped, she decides. She feels her enhancement twitch, still nestled deep inside him, sees the answering shudder run through his rubbery flesh. _This is worth it,_ she thinks, and with that thought she finally dozes off.


	7. The Claws of the Vake – Body Alteration / Injury

“Do you truly believe you have what it takes?” She stares at you in almost childish delight, her eyes twinkling playfully as she holds up the bottle.

She is such an innocent. For a moment you feel a flare of regret. It is you who has lured her here. You have told her of forbidden pleasures and excitement. You have hinted on the possibility of certain acts of debauchery that might occur between you. All you asked of her was that _she_ had to procure the bottle of Black Wings Absinthe. You would wait for her here in the Forgotten Quarter, in one of the larger tombs.

It’s the perfect place for what you have in mind. It’s far off the well-trodden paths, far away from those foolish gravediggers that call themselves archaeologists these days. Night is already setting in. The low light casts wandering shadows on the tomb’s walls and the catafalque that serves as your dining table. You’ve brought some spore toffee and some rubbery lumps. It’s good to have something in your stomach before you indulge in your obsession.

You stare at the bottle she is holding by its neck now. You lick your lips, see her eyes widen in response. You give her a soothing smile.

“Oh my dear, I _certainly_ have what it takes,” you say, dropping your voice until it is low and smooth as silk. “Come here,” you murmur, catching her sweet lips in a calculating kiss that is meant to calm her nerves as well as promise her unknown delights.

She giggles and for a while you amuse yourselves by feeding each other some toffee and lumps. Every once in a while you let your hands wander, unlacing a ribbon here, undoing a button there. You’re in no hurry to undress her. It’s more of the game of promises you’re playing with her.

Finally she loses patience. Leaning to the side, she pulls the bottle in her lap and fishes for the corkscrew. Let me. You want to say, but you stop yourself. _No! Let her!_ A voice whispers through your mind, a raspy voice, slightly squeaky and gritty, a voice you know only too well.

This is as much an initiation as it is a sacrifice. In either case it should be her who does the honours. You smile at the joke and she smiles back at you, not really understanding.

The cork comes out with a soft popping sound. It doesn’t take more than a second and the whole tomb is filled with the aroma of wormwood and leather. It’s an almost pungent smell, strong an intoxicating. You see your young lady furrow her brows when she first catches a whiff of it, but she doesn’t say anything about it. “I haven’t brought glasses,” she murmurs instead.

You notice that there’s a very slight waver in her voice, a sign of her insecurity. It makes her all the more charming in your eyes. _It would be a pity if she doesn’t survive._ The voice in your mind is back again. You have to agree.

“There’s no need for glasses,” you tell her. “Just take a swig straight from the bottle.”

She looks at you out of pleading eyes. Now she’s truly afraid. You take the bottle from her unresisting grip. She needs to see it is safe, and so you take a long swig yourself. It doesn’t matter that the safety is a lie. This will be much sweeter if you don’t have to force her.

You hold out the bottle to her. She takes it with new-found courage and brings it to her lips. You watch her raise it. You see her swallow. When it seems as if she wants to stop, you gently reach out and hold the bottle in place. “Just a little bit more, my sweetheart,” you whisper. She barely struggles and this isn’t really force, is it?

You watch her throat work frantically as she swallows and swallows even more. You see a fine trickle of absinthe run out of the corner of her mouth. The sight is your undoing. With a gasp you wrench the bottle away from her. You drink in long gulps, emptying the bottle in no time, before you let it drop to the floor.

She stares at you, her face a mixture of ecstasy and horror, a clear sign that she’s already feeling the first effects of the absinthe.

You capture her in your arms, heedless of her softly uttered protests, licking the trickle of absinthe from her chin and back up to her mouth. You lick your way inside it, kissing her with increasing fervour.

As you lose any sense of time you slowly feel the change setting in, transforming both your body and mind. Soft flesh gives way to sinewy muscles, leathery wings take shape as sharp claws replace harmless fingernails.

You hold her close to you, by now mostly driven by instinct, feeling a ravenous hunger churn in your bowels. “Don’t struggle, my sweetheart,” you manage to say, your voice already turning into the voice of your mind.

“Don’t fiGHT IT!” you continue. “MINE! FEARSWEET! MEAT! TREAT! CHEW YOU DOWN! SWALLOW YOU! DELICIOUS! DELIQUESCENT! CLOSER! FASTER!”

Clothes are ripped apart, both hers and yours, as your mind’s voice fills the tomb

“EAT YOU! HOT AND WHOLE! RIBBONED PRETTILY! REND YOUR HEART! GRIP! RIP! FLENSE!”

A woman’s cry caresses your ears, only to change into screeches, inhuman screeches, high and piercing as she answers you. “HUNTER MINE! QUARRY! HUNTER! I AM COMING! PREYLING! PLAYTHING! DEVOUR YOU!”

Your advances are met by much stronger resistance now. Claw and tooth click together and almost subtly your ravenous hunger changes its flavour, turns into lust.

“POWER! IN YOU! MOUNTING! PREPARE NOW!”

The need to conquer burns in your blood. Your attacks change as every one of them is met by a counter-attack, equally vicious. Skin flays and there’s the scent of your blood mingling with hers.

“PUSHING! PRESSING! INSIDE YOU! TEARING! FILLING! YOU! TO! THE! BRIM! TO! COMPLETION! COMPLETION!! COMPLETION!!!”

***

The pale morning light finds you lying on the bare ground, barely cushioned by a nest of shredded clothes. You’re sated and content. You feel her shifting in your arms, and your heart skips a beat as you realise that you’ve found yourself a mate. Opening your eyes, you look at her, look into her eyes. There isn’t a shred of innocence left, and you feel a slight pang of regret. You’re still searching for the right words to say to her when her hand strokes over the deep claw marks she has left on your chest. She pushes you on your back. Quickly she rises, and her movements are as graceful as carnal as she mounts you with ease, pushing down on you, claiming you. _Yes! More!_ The raspy voice in your mind whispers and you know then that there are no longer any words necessary.


	8. A Moderately Co-operative Clothes-Colony – Crossdressing

Know, first, who you are; and then adorn yourself accordingly.  ~ Epictetus

 

Clothes make a woman, they say. There’s truth in those words — at least under ordinary circumstances. In Polythreme, however, circumstances are a far cry from ordinary. Its streets, they are a place of wonderment and horror, and you can see these two walking around there arm in arm.

Oh look, there she is — such a plucky young adventuress. She came to Polythreme not too long ago, looking for adventure, excitement and just the right amount of danger to make her lovely little heart patter a bit more quickly. She looks a bit haunted, wouldn’t you say? Well, she didn’t upon her arrival.

During her first days here she roamed the streets, visited many of our most picturesque plazas, and revelled in the beauty of our palaces and temples. Deeply she drank from the well of our magic, relishing each enchantment, delighting in everything and everyone.

She took to the markets with childlike wonder, admiring the rustling silk and the subdued copperwork. Her laughter rang out loud and clear as crystal. Her charms entranced the Clay Men with ease.

It was the beginning of the end — or was it the end of a new beginning?

They drew her in, slowly and carefully. You have to understand that Polythreme isn't quite how the stories have it. The houses don't have eyes or teeth, even if they do sometimes bulge and stretch. There are Clay Men here, of course, but they are outnumbered by hobbling man-shaped collections of clothes variously called clothes-legions and clothes-colonies.

These clothes-colonies, they are a fascinating lot — chattering collections of clothes, dazzling ensembles of robes, corsets and cummerbunds, and riveting attires made of linen and wool, brocade and damask.

She fell for them, and who could condemn her for it? Yes, it was a foolish act, but when she saw it, flopping pathetically on the white stone steps of the temple, how could she not have been moved by the sight? The clothes-colony was mainly scarves and socks when she picked it up. She gasped in surprise when her own battered overcoat (the faithful companion for any real adventuress, or so they say) rustled invitingly and the scarves got friendly.

What followed was a shocking struggle of sartorial entwining, violent and orgiastic in ways that could so easily strike blind the more innocent eye. The adventuress’ cries and moans, those intermingling sounds of pleasure and pain echoed through the temple halls until at last she fell silent.

In youthful naivety she had stooped down to pick up and to own a new garment. Now, as it turned out, the garment owned _her_.

It took her some time to discover the full extent of her new condition. When she came back to her senses, still sprawled across the temple’s steps, she cautiously drew herself together and hurried back to her lodgings. There, in front of her mirror, she began a first, fearful inspection. Shaking fingers ran over seams and buttons, discovering layers and laces. Her own old clothes, the ones she had worn before, had somehow merged with the new. The result was a wild and colourful conglomerate of clothes, a new clothes-colony that wrapped around her in a manner as possessive as it was energetic.

Just how energetic she discovered when she tried to undress. She had barely laid hand on her coat-buttons when sturdy textiles pulled taut around her body, trapping her arms behind her back. She felt her trousers grow tight, and briefly she rued the decision of wearing such a garment. As a young lady of fashionably modern views, she’d always preferred the slightly scandalous attitude of wearing menswear on her travels. It was so practical she’d always said, before laughing away any further objections. Now she fervently wished for a dress.

Standing almost completely immobilised, she felt her trousers slowly draw up, felt her undergarments display a shocking amount of determination as they rubbed intimately against her. She flushed and tried to buck against the unwelcome, yet oh so sweet sensation. She tried to squirm, only to find a scarf languorously winding itself around her neck before drawing tight. Now she tried struggling in earnest, but the more she resisted the tighter the clothes-colony wrapped around her, until she could only gasp and endure.

Eventually she gave up, letting herself go limp. The change happened instantaneously, and what a change it was. She felt herself pushed back on her guest-room’s small bed. Her back had barely hit the mattress when her textile captor changed its tactics. Harsh confinement suddenly segued into soft seduction. Writhing garments enthralled her with touches that were so soft as they stroked over her belly and flanks and yet delightfully rough as they scratched over her breasts and pushed up between her thighs. It didn’t take long before the same moans she’d made involuntarily on the temple’s steps now rose with eager abandon.

In a way it was the end of the adventuress, but at the same time it was the birth of a new agent of the King of a Hundred Hearts. It is him that she serves now, and it’s her clothes-colony that keeps her in line, always balancing her between pleasure and punishment. It has turned her skittish, this constant teetering on the edge. There’s a hungry, haunted look in her eyes these days, but if you approach her and ask her if it’s worth it, she will only smile at you before turning away.

You should watch her as she walks down the street though. Are these ropes that coil around her wrists and ankles? Or are they laces, playfully winding around her waist and neck? Who knows? The streets of Polythreme are the home of both wonderment and horror and sometimes the two of them walk rather amiably arm in arm.


	9. Property of Mr Eaten – Possession / Marking

No one must know. Do you hear me? No one! Should anyone find out about the true extent of my corruption, it might very well be the end of me. You see, I’m seeking HIM. Yes, silly, that’s what I said — HIM. What? You don’t know of whom I’m talking? Well, sweetheart, then consider yourself lucky. That’s what most people would call you at least. No, I don’t want to explain that any further. Believe me, it’s better if you don’t know.

It all began innocently enough. At first I believed it to be nothing more than a pursuit of knowledge. Granted it was said to be dangerous knowledge, and its pursuit purportedly fraught with peril, but that would make its possession only sweeter in the end, I thought. The seeker is the finder, or so they say. Soon I realized the true nature of the maelstrom that was dragging me down. My family begged me to give up on this endeavour. My friends warned me it would be my ruin. I didn’t heed either.

Even the Masters of the Bazaar intervened. They sent me a message, a note bearing the seal of Mr Iron. “You are pursuing a name. End your pursuit now. This is your only warning,” the message read. It was almost enough to deter me. I felt ice-cold fear shoot through my veins. My heart stuttered and my breath stopped. I stood there, the note clasped in hands that had suddenly grown numb. A second went by, a second during which I was given a choice: to turn away from the path I had chosen or to continue and be damned. I let it pass and by doing so I chose to continue.

You see, this has long stopped being a pursuit of knowledge. It isn’t a pursuit at all. Instead it has become my passion, my obsession, my desire. It’s a slow descent into darkness, the careful preparation for an unholy union, the transformation of something utterly unworthy into something else entirely, something that is full of beauty and meaning.

The prize, you ask me? It’s a trifle. After all, how can one gain without sacrificing first?

Mind, body, and soul, all three need to be turned into a canvas that can be written upon and twisted and sullied. Seven memories of chains burdening my mind, seven weeping scars adorning my body, and seven stains on my soul — nothing more is required, nothing less is enough. Stained, scarred, and chained, I will await his blessing and possession.

Looking down at my burnt hands I wonder how much longer it will take. I can sense the change inside me, reaching down to my bones. I can see the change all over my skin, the scars forming the most exquisite arabesques. If I close my eyes I can feel the change entwining itself with my own blackened soul. Soon now, very soon, and I will be ready. I will be the perfect offering to be consumed. I will know the name. I will say it, and in doing so I will be born again, born in his image, born to be his — property of Mr Eaten.


	10. 'Our Finest Selection of Toys' - Object Penetration

**Author's Note:**

> All images are (c) Failbetter Games Ltd. No infringement intended.


End file.
